


going greek.

by grayglube, ohyellowbird



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Genderswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A degree in Criminal Justice was going to come in handy one way or another if he didn’t die of sexual duress by graduation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	going greek.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScarlettWoman710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettWoman710/gifts).



> our friend has been sick and we are prescribing her lots of dirty fic. WE LUV U SCARLETTWOMAN710!!

On Tuesday he sleeps through the pop quiz, hidden in the dark by hunched bodies and projection slides, only drawing himself up at the shuffle of papers and a stack nudging between his shoulders. He wipes away drool and spends the rest of class nodding off into the palm of his hand. When the bell rings he melts out of the chair and onto his feet, out the door with a sneeze and without a glance back.

Tate stares after him with a sour look. No ‘hey’, no ‘see you.’ Sure, they weren’t friends, but Tate thought they’d reached _friendly_ by now. Six weeks of British Lit has broken down as follows: one part staring, three parts small talk, two parts peer reviewing, and a dash of conspiratorial note-passing. Oh, and an average of three jerk sessions per day about what could have been happening all those weeks.

On Thursday, he sits with a spare desk between them and Tate wonders if he’s remembered deodorant today, turns his face into his shoulder to check.

The professor drones on about English Romanticism, the twins sitting behind him mumble quietly about pokemon, and Tate steals quick glances at the boy he’s been infatuated with since the first day of class. Three years with little interest in the 30,000 others infecting his campus until a thin, pale boy in a muted floral button-down sat next to him in the back row of Tate’s last upper-division English requirement. Vincent had a cruel sense of humor and a Vaccines backpack and soft, pink lips. He was the first thing to coax Tate away from his own darkening mind, and from his studies. A degree in Criminal Justice was going to come in handy one way or another if he didn’t die of sexual duress by graduation.

They are assigned group projects and told to partner up. Tate turns to the empty seat at his left, storming inside about whether or not to even ask. Anger rumbles through him at the audacity of this fucking kid but it’s soothed seconds later by a throat clearing itself.

“I mean, obviously,” Vincent says, face turned. His eyes are tired but intent and Tate can’t reel in his emotional baggage fast enough, messes his hair and shrugs. 

“Obviously.”

 

They leave class together, but Vincent keeps back a few paces, face going sour when Tate turns to analyze their distance.

“I’m fucking infectious, bro.” And the kicked puppy look fades.

Tate grins. “That’s okay I got all my boosters,” 

His smile is an orthodontist’s wet dream and Vincent barely has enough rally left in him for an eyebrow to edge up enough to be considered a different facial expression.

“I mean it, my balls are fucking throbbing. I think I have mumps.”

“Open your mouth.”

Vincent does and even the ‘ah’ hurts.

“That’s chlamydia-red dude. Get thee to a health center. Stat.”

Vincent’s wondered from the start if the all-american blond in his track shorts smoking menthols and looking fucked out had a particular preference. College is the worst place to gauge where the interest for cock or cunt existed on an individual case basis.

The crowds thin as they veer towards the parking garage, kids around them popping open umbrellas for a weak, early autumn drizzle.

“I haven’t had much chance to suck dick since the semester started so I don’t think I managed to contract anything too veneral.”

“There’s still time.”

“Remind me to make sure you hit the clinic, Langdon.”

Vincent waits for the sudden silence to fill up with an obligatory ‘I’m not a fag bro,” or “I was just being friendly ‘cause I thought you were cool man,” all with the sad eyes and vaguely offended notion that they don’t reek of pussy, but Tate gives him none of that.

There’s just wide eyes melting into a slow recovery and Vincent knows, even if he didn’t pick up on how Langdon sits with his dick on display in a way chicks don’t look at because it’s impolite, but guys will because _no homo bro_ still sits on the kinsey scale between three and four nine times out of ten.

“Get some antibiotics and when your balls stop throbbing let’s hang.”

“Hang?” Vincent’s grin is lazy and alive all at once, it’s his eat shit grin, it’s all trouble.

“You know. Chill? You do that right? When you’re not sucking dick to pay for college?”

“Alright, when I feel better I’ll teach you how to give a world class hummer.”

 

Vincent misses class that next Tuesday and Thursday and when Mr. Harvey reaches Tate requesting an outline for their project, he motions to the empty desk.

“If he dies do I still have to turn something in?”

Mr. Harvey levels him with a disappointed stare that has little effect. If Tate fails, the class still won’t have been a waste. When the bell rings, however, a cunty-looking girl with dark hair sidles up to him with a torn slip of college ruled paper, slides the leaf of it under his palm and dissolves, popping gum, into the crowd.

It’s a number. Tate texts it in the hall and ten minutes later he has plans to meet Vincent on Saturday to start figuring out what the fuck they’re gonna present to the class in two weeks. He has to prepare. He has to finish his CJ paper on Bundy and trim his bush.

 

Vincent is shower damp and tousled into some sort of disarray when he opens the door and gestures Tate in enough before leaving the doorframe and collapsing back on the bed. The room smells like vapor rub and Vincent wears the sticky shine of it all over his pale chest.

He complains about needing a haircut when wet strands lick over his eyelids, Tate dutifully reaches a hand down to help push them off but startles and freezes like fucking bambi when Vincent opens his eyes.

“I brought soup.”

“Who made it?”

“I did.”

“Really?”

Tate’s laugh tweaks something deep in his gut. “No, but I jerked off into it on the way here.” 

“So much sodium.”

“You probably taste like a bouillon cube you’re so salty.”

Vincent’s lazy cat grin if half sick bliss and half actual heat, “Okay, then. Suck it and see.”

 

Tate’s gnawing impulses go completely dark as arousal rushes in. It’s hard to think. His mouth is filling with saliva, some homoerotic pavlovian response, so he swallows still looking down. Vincent’s grin fades out, deflates into a pout with bottom teeth showing through.

“Fuck off,” Tate says after a beat, but there isn’t any bite to his words. Just disbelief. 

Vincent shrugs against the covers. “You don’t have to,” but before he’s finished speaking Tate is already opening the fly of his jeans, already done marveling at his commando predilection and onto tasting the taut wedge of skin at the inside of one hipbone.

“Don’t give me AIDS,” He warns, and Vincent laughs into the bend of his elbow, chews it when Tate moves downwards.

His tongue is a flat piece of heavenly property Vincent leaves his claim on with a dribble of precum and a thrust that makes Tate glare up at him. 

“Knew you’d be a cockslut, Langdon.”

A hand slips down and Tate squeezes Vincent’s balls, kneads them with his fingers, just a shade shy of real discomfort. He’ll take the verbal abuse if he can inflict some of his own, eyes on Vincent’s face to clock the way it pinches when he closes a suction around his cockhead. It’s easy from there to swallow him all the way down, fingers locking into Tate’s hair soon after to ease him in a languid rhythm.

“Shit,” Vincent is sighing, in short little bursts of air and in long, thin breaths. And Tate wants to say, “Tell me about it,” but he’s got a mouthful of dick and very little going on upstairs. He wishes he’d been wearing thinner pants, ruts at the edge of the bed with one foot on the floor, wanting to cum. 

Vincent does though, with a severed shout, shivers through it with a fist at the back of Tate’s skull keeping himself sheathed. It’s all almost enough to bring Tate over as well but he needs digital assistance, rolls belly up when he’s released and heaves in deep lungfuls of air. 

“Fuck,” Vincent expels finitely, head lolling to look over. His eyes are bleary and he’s smiling something small. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

Tate sweeps hair back from his own damp forehead and laughs, really feeling this for the first time and wanting all at once to devour Vincent, to keep him locked inside a meat freezer for fear that he wouldn’t get to feel this again. But it’s an impulse easy to dismiss for now. He clears any residual cum from the fronts of his teeth and taps fingertips absently into the slick on Vincent’s chest.

 

Tate’s eyes have sleepless dark circles under them and an edge that makes him seem more burgeoning criminal than cop or correctional officer.

Vincent considers how they could open a law firm together, it’s practically domestic, the way Langdon had slicked up his dick with surplus saliva was anything but ‘leave it to beaver’ material. It’d be worth it, even if they had to do car accident injury commercials in matching suits and come up with a shitty jingle. Not to mention all the office sex.

After another minute of recovery Vincent wobbles up onto his elbows, nods towards the styrofoam container on his desk, “Hand me the soup.” 

Their hands touch on delivery but he’s eyeing the crotch of Tate’s jeans with interest. “I’d return the favor but...”

“Spare me.”

The zebra-striped warzone has disappeared but there’s still redness at the back of Vincent’s throat and he’s three days out on being done with his meds. 

Inside the tub is chicken-noodle, basic bitch and lukewarm, but Vincent pops the lid eagerly, resettled against the headboard with bare feet on Tate’s sternum. He slurps loudly through an episode of CSI: Miami and snores through another with Tate further up the bed asleep beside him. 

Group projects and gay business outlines can wait.


End file.
